


Just a Cup of Coffee

by Apfeltree



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, Plot Twists, Sad, but still happy at the start, coffee shop AU, maybe some smoochin, sad but then happy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:29:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4614726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apfeltree/pseuds/Apfeltree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean's dad left him a failing coffee shop, complete with decrepit decor and greasy counter tops.  But when a bout of inclement weather forces a certain young student into his cozy personal hellhole, Jean realizes that one Marco Bodt might prove to be the person worth the amount of trouble they get him into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tim Hortons

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a coffee shop AU, but on the other hand, there's a little bit in the middle that might leave some people a little sad. If anything requires it, I will post triggers!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November's always slow at the Silver Spoon. But then, so are the other eleven months of the year. It's not until a certain farm-boy student blusters in that Jean's life starts taking on a bit of colour.

The shop was mostly empty, which was why Jean had lit a cigarette. Other than the two tired, creepy-looking kids who liked to come in at eleven, buy one coffee, and not leave until at _least_ three, there was no one there. At least, that was Jean’s reasoning for breaking at least four bylaws. Plus, it was nearing zero outside, the fall air turning wet and mushy as November wore on. No one wanted to stand outside in that weather, and there was no one in the shop. And to top it all off, who was going to tell him off for doing it? His dead dad? Now there would be an image, he thought. His dad’s ghost coming into the shop, smacking the cig out of his hand, and growling, _not on these counter-tops_. Because, you know, Formica was real valuable these days.

Jean was lost in thought when the bell above the door began to chime. The discordant sound shook him out of his moral reverie, and he glanced at the patron who’d just made their entrance.

The boy (man? He seemed young, but he was quite tall) was gawky, with freckles covering him seemingly from head to toe. Although Jean couldn’t really comment on his freckled-ness, other than to notice the fact that his face, neck, and hands were covered in them. The boy shook his umbrella, and then met Jean’s gaze with a warm smile.

“Isn’t that illegal?”

Jean sighed, taking one last drag before putting the cigarette out on the metal edge of the counter. “Not if you’re the owner of the bar.”

“This is a coffee shop,” said the taller boy. “At least, from what I can tell .” He nodded towards the Italian-made espresso machine, and Jean shrugged.

“Yeah, well, we all have dreams. What can I get you?”

“Um,” the boy scratched the back of his neck, surveying the chalkboard menu that dominated the space above the counter. “Coffee?”

“Drip?”

“Yes. Sure? I honestly don’t know. The fanciest coffee shop in my hometown is a Tim Hortons.”

Jean snorted. “Wow. I didn’t know the homegrown type still existed. I thought you all died out with the invention of the Internet. I think you'll be having a latte.  Name?”

“Marco,” the boy said. “And they have lattes at Tim Hortons. They’re not very _good_ , but they exist.”

Jean shook his head. “No, they do not. That’ll be $3.25. For here or to-go?”

Marco paused. “For here, thanks. I think I’ll wait out the rain.”

The shop filled with silence but for the clanging of the espresso machine as Jean made Marco his coffee. He chuckled to himself- Tim Hortons. He was almost done with the milk when the silence became awkward, and with an internal sigh Jean wondered why he didn’t have a stereo system- or at least a radio. Better question, why hadn’t his dad? It wasn’t like _Jean_ was the one who’d poured half of the spousal support he got into a greasy spoon coffee joint. His dad had been fanatical about the place, and he hadn’t even bought a radio? Dickhead.

With a flourish, Jean presented the steaming latte to a thoroughly pleased Marco.

“Ooh, this smells good,” Marco said. “Christ, but it’s cold out. You know that wet cold? I hate that. Back home it never gets like this. It’s September, and then _boom_ it’s snowing. There’s none of this wishy-washy it’s-freezing-but-also-too-warm-for-a-parka stuff.”

“Hate to crush your dreams, but I don’t think your parka will be coming out of the closet anytime soon. It doesn’t get much colder than this. Where the hell are you from, getting that much snow?”

Marco blushed slightly. “Um, boonies. Nowhere really. You ever heard of Maria?”

“Yeah… that’s like, a couple hours from here, eh?”

“Yep. And if you go two more hours north, you’ll come upon the fine, fine town of Klorva. Great place, if you love having one streetlight and a teen pregnancy rate of over 40%. Otherwise, less great.” He shrugged. “But hey. There are some good people there. Definitely. Somewhere.”

Marco’s voice faded as he took a last sip of his latte- more of a swig, really, Jean thought. Waste of good coffee. Because hey- even though Jean had an intense dislike of his charge, he still prided himself on the fact that he could make a damn good cuppa joe. Dumb kid, wasting his hard-worked on, hand-grinded coffee. _Tim Hortons_. Pft.

“Well,” Marco said, “I’d best skedaddle. I’ve got a class in like, fifteen minutes, and I don’t think this rain’s gonna be stopping anytime soon.” He passed his now-empty mug back to Jean, and turned to leave.

Before Jean could reply, the boy had already- well, he thought- _skedaddled_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there! This is a coffee-shop AU, with a small sprinkling of heartbreak in the middle because I love pain. It's great, really. Just bring it on.


	2. Skeddadle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean can't get a certain freckled boy out of his head, mostly because he has a ridiculous vocabulary and a penchant for being quite flightly.

_Skedaddle…_

It was such a stupid word. Who the fuck said “skedaddle”? Six year-olds and soccer moms, that’s who. _Skedaddle_ , Jean thought, was quite possibly the most friggin’ ridiculous word in the English language, and yet he couldn’t stop thinking about it. In fact, he’d spent an entire _week_ thinking on it.

“You seem sick,” was Eren’s impression. “I mean, there’s a flu going around. It wouldn’t be a surprise.” Eren- a bit daft, by all accounts, but a good worker, and he wore the stupid t-shirts that Jean’s dad had ordered once upon a time as uniforms. That had been back in, god, what, the nineties? Shit, Jean thought, they’re basically vintage. His second thought was: I could sell the fuckers. Ugly-ass t-shirts. No love lost, was Jean’s opinion of his dear old dad, who had a talent for dead-end propositions that left investors buying up everything from heirlooms to Jean’s own friggin’ motorbike. And yet here the coffee shop was- left standing like some long lost dream no one had thought to wake up from.

_Skedaddle_. Jean snorted and shook his head. Fuck that kid. Who in the fuck?

“Hey- Eren.” Jean looked up from the catalogs he had been browsing in an effort to find some sort of diner decoration that would pull his dingy—ass joint from the sketchy category into the just-as-horrible-but-at-least-less-horrifying kitschy. Maybe then he’d be able to garner some fringe appeal.

“Hmm?” Eren looked up from his phone. Though he was a pretty unassuming guy, with his wide eyes and fairly innocent gaze, Jean had heard from Eren’s overzealous friends that he was ‘a mean hand with a scalpel’.

“You go to to UofS, right?”

“Yeah, why you ask?”

“You know a kid named Marco?”

Eren looked over his phone and deadpanned at Jean. “There are over eighty thousand kids in my school. You’ll have to be a _little_ more specific.”

“Dark hair.”

“Oh! Thanks.” Eren rolled his eyes. “That narrows it _right_ down.”

Jean flipped a page of his catalog, the crisp sound echoing through the quiet coffee shop. “Don’t you give me lip. I’m your boss. I deserve better.”

“Yeah, boss. You’re what, a year older than me? Should I start referring to you as sir? Or perhaps even _gramps_?”

“Well, if it got me the respect I _deserved_.”

“Yeah well you-” Eren paused as the door jangled open, letting in a blast of cold air. “F-fuck winter,” he said instead, turning towards the customer, his _I am ready to help you!_ Smile already in place. Benefits of hiring a kid who’d worked at Starbucks for a year, Jean thought.

There was a pause as the two kids surveyed each other, something like recognition dawning on each face.

“YOU!” Yelled Marco,whatever he’d been about to say forgotten. “You _little_ ,” He began to walk towards the counter, and Eren turned to his boss.

“I’m gonna take my break now, gramps.” He clapped Jean on the shoulder before smoothly flipping off his name tag and escaping into the storage room.

“Gosh _darnit_ ,” Marco said, slamming his fist onto the countertop. “That guy owes me twenty bucks worth of vodka.”

Jean snorted loudly. “Of course he does, the little fucker. So you’re back?”

“I’m back,” Marco said with a blush. “First of all, I think I’m addicted to your coffee- I was desperate all week for another cup.”

“Yeah, that’s probably due to the healthy dose of crack cocaine in every cup.” Jean smiled wickedly. “Like love, but better.”

Marco grinned back. “I’m pretty sure that’s also illegal. Should I be reporting you somewhere?”

“Probably.” Jean leaned forwards with a slight shrug. “But legalities aside, what can I getcha?

“Just a latte. Wait- do you have food?”

“Ah, the golden question. Do we have food. Well, kid, we have scones.”

Marco frowned. “That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Jean replied with a shrug. “Theoretically we should have all your good ol’ coffee shop favorites, but our supplier’s a) expensive and b) lazy, so- scones!”

“Well then,” Marco said. “I guess I’ll have a scone. And _second of all_ \- don’t get me off track here man, I’m on a mission- I realized half way through yesterday that I’ve been thinking about you all week and I don’t know your name.”

Jean handed him his latte, the scone still warming in the oven.

“Jean Kirschtein, at your literal service. And your name is Marco.” Marco who’d been thinking of him all week, but Jean didn’t choose to voice that sentiment.

Marco nodded. “Marco Bodt.”

“Good to know. But on to a very pressing matter- what the fuck is with skedaddle?”

Marco laughed. “What do you mean, what’s with it?” He took a sip of his coffee and shrugged. “It’s a word.”

“If you’re a soccer mom, yeah it’s a word.”

“Hey, it’s a _cool word_. For cool people. Like me.” Marco pointed to himself proudly, and Jean snorted.

“Yeah… okay, bud.”

Marco shook his head. “Why are you judging me? _I’m_ not the one ordering his Christmas decorations in November.”

“You’d be surprised,” Jean said. “These actually came in August.” Tenderly, he stroked to cover of _Diamond Decor Monthly_ , flipping to a random page. “Ah,” he said. “Winter elegance.”

Marco laughed. “And what’s winter elegance?”

“Well, it seems to be non-denominational glittery stars in a lovely, calming blue and white colour scheme.” Jean showed the catalog to Marco, who snorted at the sparkling, full-page horror.

“That’s… eye-catching. Although I kind of like the six-foot Santa on the next page,” Marco said.

“Yeah, it has it’s charms.” Jean trailed off, instead looking up at Marco, who was half smiling at the luridity of the various themed decorations. His hair was buzzed short at the back, and the freckles that seemed to overtake every inch of his skin snuck almost into his hairline. A hairdresser had given him bangs that were clearly meant to be styled in some way, but instead lay floppy against Marco’s forehead, making him look even younger than he probably was. Which he was, Jean reminded himself- young. Jean cleared his throat. “But I’m pretty sure I’m gonna go with the traditional red and green and gold. And maybe white.”

“Suit yourself. I will personally be investing in my giant Santa with glee, because I am a forward-thinking gentleman.”

“Who willingly drinks Tim Hortons.”

“Hey man, screw you.”

The toaster oven buzzed at that moment, and Jean presented Marco with his toasty, depressing scone. Marco paused, open mouthed, at the sad-looking pastry, and laughed.

“Wow,” he said.

“Yep.”

“Wow.” Marco laughed again, taking the plate from Jean. “This is…” he searched for a word, something to describe the scone, and clearly failed, instead choosing to laugh again. “Did you make this?”

Jean spluttered. “What? _No_. I am a _fantastic_ baker. I would _never_ make something of this caliber. This is a tiny, feeble _crumb_ compared to the luscious masterpieces I can create.”

“You can bake?” Marco seemed genuinely surprised, and Jean blushed slightly before answering. Eren was always giving him shit for the packed lunches he brought to work every day, and while _admittedly_ his lunch-box was not the epitome of manliness, (being a purse-shaped object upon which a decal of Sleeping Beauty’s crown was proudly stamped) it had cost him six-fifty from Canadian Tire, and packed lunches saved him about forty bucks a week in food money.

“Well,” Jean finally replied, “I’ve been known to toast a pop-tart or two.” _Save_.

Marco rolled his eyes and took a bite out of his scone. “Yeah, okay, master-chef.” He paused. “Wow,” He said again, “this is… just as bad as it looks. How is this scone part of an effective business model?”

“Does this place look like I have an effective business model?” Jean gestured at the half-full café, making eye-contact with the fifty-something homemaker who’d been eavesdropping for the better part of an hour.

“No,” Marco ceded, “It, admittedly, does not.” He took another bite of his scone, chewing thoughtfully, and then smacked his palm down on the countertop so fast Jean jumped.

“Hey man,” Jean started, “This is the _good_ formica, and that is the second time today you have abused it. Love the counter and it will love you back.”

Marco shook his head and quickly tapped his nose like an academic would stroke their beard. “No! No no! Jean! I know a guy! Well, not a guy. But a guy!”

Jean paused, looked around suspiciously, then leaned in. “For weed?”

“No, you butt! For stuff! For baking!”

“…weed.”

“NO, ohmylord. For baked goods! For here!” Marco grinned excitedly, then stuffed the last bits of scone into his mouth, swishing them down the rest of his coffee. “I will be back!” he said, before running out the door.

Eren poked his head out of the storage room.

“What the fuck?” he asked.

“Don’t you owe him money?” Jean replied.

“I thought it was my shit. It was an honest mistake. Very generic bottle. He should have like, labeled it or something, if he was gonna get all pissy about it. Jesus. It was only like, half the bottle too. God.” Eren shook his head. “Some people.”

“Yeah,” Jean replied. “Some people.” He looked back down at his Christmas catalogs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm going to try and post on tuesdays and fridays! I feel like telling anyone reading this when I'll be posting will make me post more regularly. So yes!
> 
> P.S. I own that darn lunchbox and it's the best lunchbox in the whole world I will fight someone on this.   
> P.P.S. I'm always a slut for reviews ',:)


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